I’ve been drinking too much. Or too often. Either way, this hangover is telling me I need to cool it. This hangover is also suggesting a Bloody Mary.
Starting with a weekend jaunt to New York and culminating with last night’s police assistance to find my iPhone right where I left it (in the Uber), I’ve been ping ponging to events that include maybe one too many drinks in formalwear. Bernie and I have also been doing this low carb thing, so although we look fabulous, we have all of the tolerance of a sophomore at a field party.
It’s Gala Season, y’all. And when your dearest friend has been planning an event for, like, a year… and then 800 people attend and donate nearly $200K to champion homeless children, that’s cause for some school night celebratory drinking! So that’s what we did. And with a renewed devotion to the Home for Little Wanderers and vows to be better, more generous humans we toasted and clinked and gibber gabbered until my best babysitter was texting, “um… ETA?”
Tom was kind enough not to make me do babysitter math in my wine-infused, iPhone-less stupor. And really, not even the vat of Chardonnay I drank last night left me feeling as adrift as losing my phone. Thankfully, the Uber driver answered my 27th call this morning and just returned it to me—with the blank check, ID, and credit cards untouched. I gave him $100, five stars for his Uber rating, and a hug (which might have boosted mine).
When we were newly marrieds, Bernie lost his money clip… twice. Each time, it was right before the holidays and canceling the credit cards meant an unpredictable batch of online Christmas purchases was, too. His absent-mindedness had less to do with wine, and everything to do busyness. Both times, losing his money clip was a little nudge from The Universe telling us that we were trying to do too much all at once, forcing us to sit down, retrace steps, and spend umpteen on hold hours with customer service to protect our checking account from criminals. To this day, whenever I misplace something important, I take an inventory of the calendar items that seem so necessary, but aren’t.
So, I hear you, Universe. “No more mid-week drinking!” might be a hollow promise for a Thursday afternoon, especially after you returned my phone and valuables. And I should have learned this lesson with Ran so many summers ago when I realized I didn’t actually have the stamina to celebrate with gallons of Prosecco every time I greeted an old friend with my new hair. Even Dad and I made a hungover vow nearly twenty years ago that No Wine Shall Be Uncorked After 3am. Of course the corollary rule is that Uncorked Wine Must Be Finished, and the Stocktons are better known for that one.
Because Graduation Cere-mania follows closely on the heels of Gala-palooza, I’m thinking Moderation needs to be a bigger part of my party persona. Or I’m going to need one of you to whip up some Bloody Marys. Extra horseradish.
Blooms and Bubbles 